Twelve Days of Angstmas
by angelsdemonsducks
Summary: The Twelve Days of Christmas, Supernatural style! Because the boys just can't catch a break! Twelve days. Twelve one-shots. Twelve times that the characters got mercilessly beat up. Will have daily updates.
1. Chapter 1

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day One- Dean**

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Word Count: **864

**Summary:** A traditional werewolf hunt goes slightly south. A bit of angst, a bit of fluff.

**Spoilers: **Up to episode 7x08

**Disclaimer: **If I owned the show, Destiel would be canon, Adam and Gabriel would come back, and Crowley would be in it more than he already is. Alas, it is not to be.

**A/N: **Twelve days of Christmas… yeah, I couldn't help myself. There will be twelve one-shots in total, every one involving a different character being injured. Because I love angst and h/c and have nothing better to do with my life. I hope you like!

* * *

**Dean**

Dean cautiously peered around the dumpster, tightening his grip on his gun. The werewolf remained unaware of his presence; she was still gorging herself on her kill. _Alex Hopkins_, Dean reminded himself. _His name was Alex Hopkins._ They'd interviewed the incessantly cheerful man only that morning, but now he was just another person he and his brother had failed to save.

Like Cas.

He shook his head. He wouldn't think about that now. Not on the hunt. Especially when this was the first normal hunt they'd had in weeks. That thing with Becky and Garth a few days ago sure as hell didn't count.

Slowly, he unlatched the safety on the gun, the 'click' resounding through the alley. The werewolf's head snapped up, and she looked around wildly, her lips curled back in a snarl. Dean froze, cursing his unpreparedness. Honestly, he hadn't expected to come across the wolf here.

He'd just been out for a pie run.

The werewolf's eyes fixed on Dean, and he cursed again, raising his gun level with her heart. But it was too late for that. She moved faster than he could react, barreling straight into him. He hit the pavement hard, the air rushing out of his lungs and his gun skittering away. He only just managed to use her momentum to push her off of him. Gasping for breath, he rolled into a crouch. His gun was nowhere to be seen, lost in the shadows of the alley. _Where is it?!_

A few yards away, the werewolf growled and surged to her feet. Dean instantly rose as well. Staying sitting during a werewolf hunt? Not a good idea.

If only he had his gun.

He had just enough time to brace himself before she hit him again, making a surprisingly good imitation of a freight train, considering her size. Despite his best efforts, he was sent tumbling to the ground again, his head cracking against the pavement. He tried to throw her off again, but it was no use; evidently, she'd learned from her previous error. Her nails dug deep into his arms, and her knees pressed against his chest, pinning him down. She smiled as he struggled, baring all of her teeth and leaning forward. Time seemed to slow down.

_So, this is how it ends. Dean Winchester, brought down by a werewolf hooker. I hope Sammy'll be alright. Wait, scratch that, I just hope he won't do something stupid._

Suddenly, shots reverberated through the alleyway. Once. Twice. Three times. The werewolf's eyes widened for a moment as blood bloomed on her shirt, her white shirt now crimson red. Letting out a dog-like whine, she fell slowly over on to her side. Dean let out a sigh of relief as the claws slid out from his arms.

Then, Sam was there, standing over him, his eyes full of concern. "Dude, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Dean replied, sitting up, wincing at the pain in his arms. "I thought you were back at the room."

Sam smiled slightly, offering Dean a hand. "You said you'd be back in ten, but you were gone for fifteen. I got worried."

"Right." Dean stood up, but immediately wished he hadn't, as the wound in the back of his head chose that time to make its presence known. He swayed in place, detachedly observing the fact that there now appeared to be two Sams.

"Dean!" Sam caught him before he fell. "Geez, man! Let's get you back to the hotel."

Dean could only remember nodding in agreement before everything went black.

xXx

The first thing Dean realized when he woke up was that apparently, a herd of loud, obnoxious elephants had decided to make his head their home without him noticing. He groaned, slowly opening his eyes.

"Dean!"

Dean turned his head to the side. Yup, there was Sam, hovering at the side of the bed and looking generally like a mama… moose? Was that even a thing?

Yeah, he definitely had a head injury.

"Hey, man, how're you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Like I got tossed to the ground and clawed up by a skanky werewolf. Oh, wait…"

Sam huffed a short laugh, though the relief in his voice was almost palpable. "Whatever."

Dean grinned, struggling to an upright position. There was a bandage wrapped around his head, he noted, and several on his forearms. The latter throbbed, but besides that and his skull, he felt alright. "So, did you grab my gun?" he asked.

"Your…?" Sam stared at him.

"You left my gun all by itself in a dark, dank alley? Dude, it's one of my favorites!"

Sam clenched his jaw. "I was a little busy dragging your unconscious ass back to the motel. Sorry."

"So, you didn't even take care of the bodies? Sam!"

"You've been out for five hours, Dean," Sam said, voice suddenly quiet. He stared at the bed sheets, seemingly taking an interest in the pink floral pattern. "I was worried."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "That so?"

Sam was silent.

"Fine. Go get me that pie, and we'll call it even."

Sam's head shot up, and he glared at him. "Really, Dean? Really?"

"Bitch."

"Jerk."


	2. Chapter 2

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Two- Sam**

**Characters:** Sam, Dean

**Word Count: **826

**Summary:** Sam's demon blood problem causes a... _problem_ with another hunter, but he holds on to hope. Because Dean'll come for him. He always does.

**Spoilers: **Season 5, just… in general, I suppose.

**Disclaimer: **I swear on Crowley's dead tailor, I don't own the show, though I really, really wish I did.

**A/N: **Well… it's a little… late, I suppose, but it's still the 14th! I'm just glad I got it done at all! Man, this daily update thing is harder than it sounds.

* * *

Sam

Consciousness came flooding back to Sam all at once, and he suppressed a moan of pain. It would not be smart to let his captor know that he was awake. Any reprieve, no matter how small, would help him get through this. Help him survive until Dean came.

If Dean came.

No, Dean would come. He always came. It was just a matter of when.

He slowly inhaled, fighting not to wince. He definitely had some broken ribs, four at the least. He was lucky that none of them had punctured anything vital. And aside from those, he was cut up, bruised, and from the way everything swam every time he opened his eyes, he had a pretty nasty concussion.

All because he was stupid enough to let another hunter get the jump on him.

Oh, it wasn't like he didn't deserve it. He most certainly did. _Nothing_ would ever make up for the colossal mistakes he'd made. But that didn't mean that he liked it, it didn't mean that he didn't scream in pain, and it definitely didn't mean that he stopped wishing Dean would come for him.

Footsteps echoed on the floor of the warehouse (because, yes they were in a warehouse. This hunter was not only slightly crazed, but also cliché), coming nearer and nearer. Then: "Wakey wakey Sam." A slap rang across his cheek so hard, he saw stars. "It's not naptime anymore." Sam continued to sit limply in the chair he was tied to, hoping that playing possum would work. "Come on, Sammy. I know you're there."

Apparently not.

He opened his eyes and stared dazedly at the rugged face hovering before his. A face that was splitting into a wide grin. "I knew it. Hello, Sam."

His name was Carter. Carter Morstern. He was 31 years old, came from Phoenix, Arizona, and specialized in hunting werewolves. Sam knew because he'd worked with him a few times.

"So, where should we start now?" Carter asked, casually twirling a knife in his fingers. It was bloodied up to its hilt, and Sam knew exactly whose blood it was. "Oh, I know. Maybe we'll put some… _decorations _on that pretty face of yours. The permanent kind, obviously." He leaned in close. "You know the demon? The one that got my daughter? It carved up her face too. So much that I could barely tell it was her when I got there." He laughed, a stilted, hysterical sound. "Not that you'd care much. The boy with the _demon blood_. It's funny, I've hunted with you three times, and I never once realized that you're a worse monster than the things we killed."

Sam hung his head. The words cut into him deeper than the knife could. Because it was all true, and Carter didn't even _know _about the fact that he was the vessel of Lucifer.

Maybe if he told him, he'd kill him quickly.

No, he couldn't do that. He had to hang on, because Dean would get here soon, Dean would come for him, he _always_ came-

"Get the hell away from my brother, you _bastard_." The familiar voice was shaking with rage.

Dean. Sam could've sobbed in relief. He must've blacked out for a moment then, because suddenly he was there, undoing the bonds that held him. Carter was nowhere in sight, but Sam didn't care. "D'n?" he murmured.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm here." His voice was gentle now, and without any of the judgement that usually simmered right below the surface. "It's gonna be alright."

Sam blinked blearily. Everything was getting a bit fuzzy now. "Where's C'rter?" he asked, trying to keep himself awake and in reality.

"He won't be bothering you again, Sam. Or anyone else." The coldness in that statement could've frozen fire. As he said it, he finished untying the last of the ropes that held Sam to the chair. Sam gasped in relief as the circulation in his hands got going again. "Jesus, Sam, how do you get into these messes?"

Sam smiled, as much as his cracked and bloody lips would allow him to. "W'nchester fam'ly luck?" A wave of dizziness hit him, and he groaned, sliding down to the floor. Blackness began to encroach on his vision, and he knew he didn't have long before it took him.

"No, Sam, come on. You gotta stay awake for me, okay?"

_I'm trying, Dean, _he wanted to say, but that was swiftly becoming an impossibility. All he could do was let out a pitiful moan.

But that was okay. Dean was there. Suddenly, Sam was all of eight years old again, lying sick in a crappy motel room bed. Dean stayed by his side all the time, just to make sure he was safe. He always did that.

Even as he slid into unconsciousness, ignoring Dean's panic-laced words, Sam smiled again.

His brother would keep him safe, just like he always did. Just like he always would.


	3. Chapter 3

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Three- Castiel**

**Characters:** Dean, Castiel, a bit of Sam

**Word Count: **855

**Summary:** Cas ends up on the wrong end of a demon's knife. It shouldn't be that much of a problem, but as it turns out, he's running a bit lower on Grace than anyone anticipated.

**Spoilers: **Know who Castiel is! And that during season 5, he's gradually falling.

**Disclaimer: **I met Mr. Kripke today, and he said that he would be very happy to sign over all rights to the show to me! YAAAAAAAY! And then I woke up...

**A/N: **Another late post, but it's here! And I am now going to go freak out about the finals I really _should_ be studying for…

* * *

Cas

After they'd taken care of the demons, Dean had thought that for once, the job would be done. He and Sam could go back to their crappy motel room and sleep it off, for once not worrying about demons or angels or whether or not they could even trust each other. And Cas could go back to Who-Knows-Where on his God-hunt.

But when was it ever that simple?

Maybe he should have seen it coming. Cas _had_ been losing more and more of his mojo lately, seemingly at increasing speed. He should have _realized_ that self-healing would be the next thing to go.

He should also have been more concerned when he saw one of the demons knife him. In his defense, he'd been a bit preoccupied with his own opponent, so he'd only glimpsed the motion out of the corner of his eye. But still… he should have done _something_.

If he had, his best friend wouldn't be lying on the floor, trying to keep his innards where they belonged.

"_Shit,_ Cas," he breathed. "Why didn't you say it'd gotten this bad?"

"I was not aware that it had," the angel replied. He was trying to keep an even tone, that much was obvious, but he was failing miserably. From the way the angel's voice was shaking, Dean could tell that it _hurt_. "And do not blaspheme, Dean."

Okay, the guy was, like, seconds away from passing out or something, and he still found the energy to lecture him? In what world was that fair?

No, scratch that. He could lecture all he wanted. At least it would mean that he was still alive.

"Right, man, sorry." Dean attempted a grin, but it slid right off his face. "How're you holding up?"

Cas gave him a look that stated quite clearly, _Don't ask stupid questions._

"Dean!" And suddenly, Sam was right beside him, waving the first-aid kit under his nose. Right. He'd sent him to the car to get it. That felt like years ago.

_Focus, Dean. Focus. Cas' life might just depend on it._

And he was not. Losing. Cas.

Whoever said that Dean Winchester couldn't work well under pressure was dead wrong. Quite possibly literally.

"Okay, Cas, before we get you stitched up, we're gonna need to clean the wound." Cas' eyes widened, and his already unsteady breathing hitched. Dean doubted that he'd ever had to go through something like this before. Hopefully, he'd never have to again, if he could help it. But he had to survive this first. "Can you take your hands off it for me buddy?"

Cas stared at him for a moment, and Dean realized how frightened he must be. In all the time he'd known him, the angel had never once been as… _helpless_ as this. Cas was used to being Mr. I-Am-An-Angel-Of-The-Lord You-Should-Show-Me-Some-Respect. Hell, the very first time he'd met Dean, he'd, being the hunter he was, stabbed him in the chest, and he didn't even blink!

And now he, a supposedly immortal being, was on death's door.

He _would_ die, most likely, unless he let Dean get to work.

"Come on, man," he pleaded. "You've got to let me do my thing. You trust me, don't you?"

Another moment passed. Then, Cas inclined his head and raised his hands from his abdomen, hissing between his teeth as he did so. Dean exchanged a look with his brother, who moved to a position near the angel's shoulders, just in case. "Okay, Cas, here we go. This won't take long, I promise." Not wanting to wait any longer, he took a deep breath and poured the alcohol over the injury.

While useful as disinfectant, the sensation of pouring alcohol on an open stab wound can be likened somewhat to standing on burning coals. The scream Cas let out at that time was one that Dean actually _prayed_ he'd never have to hear again (a part of him that was staying detached from the whole thing observed at this point how much worse it could have been had he allowed some of his 'true voice' to leak through).

At least the hard part was over.

"Okay, Cas, that bit's over," Dean murmured, as soon as the other was calm enough to hear him. "All we've got to do now is stitch it up." Cas nodded in stoic agreement, though tears ran down his face.

Dean sighed and looped the thread through the needle, about to begin the most time-consuming, and the most important task of the night.

xXx

Consider, for a moment, the sight of them. An angel, falling for humanity, lying wounded on the ground. A hunter by his shoulders, concern and even fear plastered on his face. And another human crouched in front of them both, stitching the angel's injury with painstaking care.

This was Team Free Will. They could be defined individually, as a hunter, or an angel, or a moose. They were, after all, so different from one another. But the thing that counts most in the end is that they were, and always will be, family.

Because family don't end in blood.


	4. Chapter 4

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Four- Gabriel**

**Characters:** Sam, Gabriel, briefly Dean

**Word Count: **930

**Summary:** Why did these things always happen to him? Dean was just out getting supplies. Taking care of an injured archangel was _not_ how Sam had anticipated spending the next hour.

**Spoilers: **Season 6, a little past halfway

**Disclaimer: **Hmm, I've tried sending really polite letters, but they just keep ignoring me. Maybe I should go for a… face-to-face meeting. Still, as of now, I do not own Supernatural.

**A/N: **This is… I mean… I think I just wrote pre-slash Sabriel. Not what I was going for, but hey. Read into it what you want. The fact is, we've got Gabriel, and we've got Sam, and they have a moment. Enjoy!

* * *

Gabriel

Of all the things Sam was expecting that Thursday, a text from a dead archangel was not one of them. Yet, there it was, flashing brightly: _Whr r u Sam? -Loki_

Sam stared at the screen of his phone in disbelief for a moment. Gabriel was alive? Had he missed that memo while he was soulless? Or maybe this was a trick. Hesitantly, he sent a message back: _Prove it's you._

A moment later, his phone pinged again. A picture of a pig-in-a-poke dominated the device, with the words below it reading, _It was the heat of the moment Sam please_

Yup, definitely him. Sam sighed and texted him the location, ignoring how pissed Dean was going to be. After all, if Gabriel wanted to come for a visit, he could hardly stop him.

A minute passed, and then another. Sam began to anxiously check his message box to see if he'd missed anything. It wouldn't be like the trickster to have his location and not do anything with it.

Suddenly, the sound of uneven wingbeats split the air, and Gabriel was there, lying on the other bed, looking pale and bloody and breathing unsteadily. Sam felt his breath catch. _Oh God._ Because he could see the archangel's _wings_. They had to have a thirty foot wingspan at the very least; they could barely fit in the space offered to them. But what really worried him was that the golden feathers were splattered with blood.

"Oh, crap, Gabriel," he gasped, moving to the side of the bed.

The archangel shifted and moaned, turning his head to peer at the Winchester, amber eyes hazy. "Hey Samsquatch," he murmured. "Sorry about the dramatic entrance, but I'm really not feeling my-" He broke off into a fit of convulsive coughing, and Sam instinctively reached out to steady him.

"Jeez, what happened to you?" he asked softly.

Gabriel chuckled a bit. "Well, after the whole Lucifer business, I'm hiding, right? 'Til you mooks can pull it off. Of course, then Raphael came and tried to start it all over again. He found me, wanted me to help him." He went silent for a moment, taking shuddering breaths.

"And then?"

"I told him to take his precious apocalypse and stick it where the sun don't shine," he replied bleakly. "He… he wasn't too happy with me, after that."

Sam winced in sympathy, sweeping his eyes up and down the archangel's body, observing the cuts and bruised he seemed to be riddled with, not to mention the state of his wings. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "What can I do?"

"Give me a place to hole up. I'll heal on my own, but if I could stay here…"

"Of course," Sam agreed reflexively. Gabriel relaxed a bit and closed his eyes, suddenly appearing way younger.

Was it weird to be thinking that? Probably. Sam got up from his place beside the bed and walked to the bathroom, soaking a few towels in water, then walked back over to where Gabriel lay. Gently, he placed the towel on one of his wings. The archangel stiffened, and his eyes flew open. "Sorry," Sam backtracked. "I just thought it might be a good idea to wash some of the blood off. If that's okay?"

Gabriel studied him through narrow eyes for a moment, then nodded sharply. Sam took this as the permission it was to begin his ministrations. He moved the towel carefully, trying not to pull anything or move feathers out of place. As soon as that towel was soaked through, he picked up the next and continued. Eventually, Gabriel relaxed, and some of the lines of pain disappeared from his face.

Before long, the golden wings were clean, or as clean as they were going to get. Sam tried to bandage them to the best of his ability, though it was hard; he didn't want to somehow mess up.

A few years ago, if someone had told him that he'd be fixing up the wings of Gabriel the archangel, he'd have tried to shoot them.

"Hey," he said. "You still awake?"

"Yeah, thanks." His voice was faint, but not shaky.

"Did I do alright? With your wings and everything, I mean."

Gabriel remained silent, and for a moment, Sam feared that by cleaning them, he'd somehow crossed a line. Somehow. But then the archangel whispered: "It's been a long time since I've trusted someone enough to touch my wings."

Wow. There were so many things wrong with that statement, he wasn't sure where to begin. So he started with the most obvious one. "You… trust me?"

"Well, I certainly don't trust Deano," Gabriel snarked. "He'd probably just kill me."

Sam couldn't deny that. "But why… why trust me? I'm… I'm _tainted_."

"That's the point." Gabriel's voice was barely more than a breath now, as he slid into sleep. "You are tainted. You've been through so much. Your soul's been tattered and torn and ripped and stained. But underneath all the damage, it's so bright, so… _human_, it amazes me." He gave a small, tired grin. "Why do you think I've always paid so much attention to you? Why do you think-"

He fell asleep mid-sentence.

Sam stated at the archangel in disbelief. What was he talking about? How could his soul possibly be-

Dean chose that moment to burst back into the room, a bag of groceries in one hand and a pie in the other. One look at Sam, and the wounded archangel on the bed beside him, and both dropped to the floor.

"What the _hell?!_"


	5. Chapter 5

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Five- John**

**Characters:** John, Dean

**Word Count: **

**Summary:** John Winchester would probably have died long ago, if he didn't have his son to look after him.

**Spoilers: **This is pre-pilot, so not really.

**Disclaimer: **For some odd reason, Mr. Kripke did not take to being locked in my closet. And I made sure to clean it beforehand and everything! But sadly, he still didn't hand over Supernatural to me. Back to the drawing board.

**A/N: **So, this one's more like a drabble. I think it might be because I don't like John. I mean, I tried, I really did, but… Yeah, this is all that came out. I'm sorry. Tomorrow's Bobby though, so it should turn out better.

* * *

John

"Dad… wake… on… please… don't… Dad…"

The voice slowly filtered through the haze of John's mind. He knew who that was…

Dean. His son. And he was scared.

With a gasp, John pulled himself into consciousness, his eyes flying open. He immediately regretted it though, as the world seemed to spin and collapse in on itself, flashing with too-bright color.

"Dad!"

Suddenly, his 16-year-old son's face swam into view, pinched and drawn. His eyes were filled with tears. Why was that? What had happened?

Oh, right. The vampire. John took a moment to curse his own stupidity. The bastard had snuck up on him and gotten a bite before he could react. Drained him nice and good.

And then his son had gotten there. Pride warmed his stomach. Dean hadn't hesitated, chopping the vamp's head off with a rather large machete. Then, everything had gone black.

"Dad, Dad, can you hear me? Dad?"

"Yeah, Dean, I hear you," he responded with an effort.

"Oh, thank God," Dean sighed. "Listen, Dad, you've lost a lot of blood. I think we need to get you to a hospital."

A hospital? No. He didn't feel bad as all that. "No Dean, I don't need medical attention," he decided. "Let's just get back to the motel."

"But Dad-"

"I won't tell you twice."

Dean's shoulders slumped, but he nodded. He knew not to argue with him when he brooked that tone of voice. And he didn't, because he was a good soldier. Sam, on the other hand…

No, he wouldn't go there. Not only should he really not be comparing the two, but this wasn't the time.

Dean offered his hand, and John took it, stumbling to his feet and trying his hardest to ignore the wave of dizziness that assaulted him. "C'mon," he stated. "Let's get going."

"Yes sir."


	6. Chapter 6

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Six- Bobby**

**Characters:** Bobby

**Word Count: **633

**Summary:** Bobby's got a problem, in the form of a pissed off shapeshifter. What's a hunter to do?

**Spoilers: **Set vaguely in season 2, I suppose, but the boys aren't even in this, so no real spoilers.

**Disclaimer: **Working on the paperwork right now! But it's not mine _yet_, so...

**A/N: **Again, I'm super sorry about yesterday, but my computer was being absolutely bizarre. I fixed the problem though (although I'm still not really sure what the problem was), and I'm back! With our favorite ball-cap wearing hunter in tow! (and he yelled and complained the whole way, believe me)

* * *

Bobby

Dammit.

Dammit, dammit, dammit, dammit, _dammit!_

_How _could he have made such a rookie mistake?

The pounding on the wooden door continued, and Bobby glared at it, as if trying to make it spontaneously combust.

Wait, no, that would be a bad idea. It was currently the only thing between him and an extremely ticked off shifter. The door needed to stay intact. He shook his head for even entertaining such thoughts. Clearly, the pain spiking up from his broken arm was messing with his head.

_Focus, ya idgit. Ya need to focus. The boys'll never let ya hear the end of it if ya don't._

And wasn't that the truth! There was no way Bobby was letting himself get scolded by Sam or Dean Winchester. Ever. For any reason.

And scold him they would, if they ever found out about this. After all, none of this would be happening if he hadn't gone and lost his weapon like some idgit newbie. In his defense, he hadn't been expecting to come across the thing here, but _that_ was probably because of a failing in his research.

_But why didn't I just get someone else to take the damn case in the first place? _he berated himself. _Garth is in the area, I could've got Garth. Even _he _can handle a shifter._ Oh well. It was rather too late now. Bobby shifted on his feet, wincing as the movement jostled his arm. The only thing he could do at this point was wait and hope that his plan worked.

It was unlikely to do so, but it was the only plan he had. And judging from the state of the door, it was the only plan he'd have the chance to come up with.

Finally, the door ripped completely off its hinges, splinters of wood flying everywhere, and the shifter charged in, dark eyes glinting maliciously. It fixed its attention on the hunter, and Bobby squared his shoulders to meet it head on. It ran at him, and they collided, pain shooting up Bobby's arm as the bone was hit.

The shifter was young and in its prime. Bobby was a grizzled old man, and he had a broken arm.

The shifter didn't stand a chance.

After only thirty seconds of tussle, it sailed right out the window that Bobby had so thoughtfully opened for it.

Bobby only took a moment to track the thing's path to the ground before turning and rushing from the room. He took the stairs two at a time; speed was of the essence. He didn't have long before the shifter would be up and at 'em again.

Luckily, the silver knife was right where he'd dropped it in the kitchen of the old house. He snatched it up from the floor without pause.

Outside, the shifter was just regaining its feet. It narrowed its eyes and snarled at Bobby as he approached. "You can't kill me, old man. I'm stronger than you," it growled.

Bobby snorted. "Like hell you are."

The shifter rushed at his once again. Unlike the last time, however, the hunter was armed.

He viewed the corpse of the monster with complete apathy. With vampire and werewolf hunts, he might feel some sympathy for what lay before him, as in many of those cases, the monster was also the victim. But shifters were born the way they were; there was nothing to do with them but kill them before they could hurt others.

Well, any _more_ others, Bobby thought, moving his arm and cringing. He'd need to get this set as soon as possible.

So he would, right after burning the shifter's body, and if Dean noticed the fact that his arm was in a cast on his next visit, he didn't say a word.


	7. Chapter 7

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Seven- Crowley**

**Characters:** Crowley, Sam, Dean

**Word Count: **915

**Summary:** They've burnt down his house. They've eaten his tailor. They've hunted him across the bloody ends of the earth! And now Lucifer's agents have caught up to him. Is there anyone a hunted demon can turn to?

**Spoilers: **Set between 5.20 and 5.21, so, spoilers for season 5, I guess. And uh, I may have accidentally made a few _Good Omens _references. They're really little though, so you honestly don't have to have read it.

**Disclaimer: **I accidentally lost the paperwork… oops. So it's still not mine. And neither is _Good Omens._

**A/N: **Here's today's update part two! So, if you haven't seen the previous chapter, that one's new too. Anyway, I bring to you a snarky, injured, British demon, because I absolutely adore Crowley! And on the _Good Omens_ front… I can't help it. I am fascinated with GO/SPN crossovers (as anyone reading the one I'm posting right now can attest). There's only a few vague references in this chapter though, so to anyone who hasn't read the book, that's fine (though you should, it's great), it just means I'm going to be playing around with Crowley's history a bit. However, I am planning a bigger crossover in a few days, so… be prepared. It's coming! (evil laughter)

And so ends the Super Long Author's Note of Doom™!

* * *

Crowley

_Well, one certainly knows they're in bad shape when demons start drawing Devil's Traps, _Crowley reflected, trying very, very hard not to have a meltdown. All his weeks of hiding, and this is what it came to?

"Crowley, Crowley, Crowley," the demon stated, the corners of her mouth twitching. "You piece of disloyal _scum._ Everyone's been looking for you, and we find you in Boston? Really?"

"What can I say?" he stated. Bluster and bravado, that was how he'd get out of this one. Bluster and bravado. "I'm a Red Sox fan."

"I'm sure." The demon sauntered around the edges of the circle, grinning in a predatory way that he _really_ didn't like. "You know, our Lord's gonna come see you. In person."

Oh, damn. Face-time with the Devil was _not_ a good thing. "You can tell him not to bother," he tried. "I wouldn't want to put him through any trouble."

"Oh, it's no trouble. No trouble at all. I hear he's actually been wanting to talk to you for a while. Ever since… 1990, was it?"

Oh, damn.

"I admit, I never would have guessed _you_ of all people to have gotten mixed up in that," she purred. "But I suppose you've done a good job at hiding yourself since."

Crowley laughed nervously. Oh, this was so not good. If only he had access to his cell phone. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

The demon laughed right back. "I'm sure you do." She grinned like a shark. "And I'm sure we'll have lots of fun talks about it."

His blood ran cold. "What?"

"Our Lord will come to visit when he has the inclination. Until then, I have free reign." She clasped her hands together and stared at him earnestly. "We are going to have so much fun."

He didn't even have time to react to this rather ominous statement before everything went black.

xXx

His memories of what came next were a little fuzzy. He thought he could recall laughter, and the pain of steel biting his skin, and salt and holy water, and someone screaming, and that someone might have been him.

By the time he could think clearly enough to… well, _think_, it had to have been days.

And he felt absolutely horrible.

But the room was silent. That was something. No more crazy demon bitches.

Wait, no. There was noise outside now. Noise that sounded like… fighting? Crowley tried to raise his head to see, but he suddenly found that that was absolutely impossible, if he didn't want it to fall off.

The door opened, and he braced himself for the worst.

"Holy shit," someone breathed. He knew that voice, and he didn't like it. "Is that Crowley?"

"Yeah," a second person growled. Oh, brilliant. "That's him."

"Oh, God."

"Yeah, guy looks like he's been through a meat grinder." The man laughed humorlessly, his footsteps resounding closer. "Only question is, what do we do with him?"

The first one was silent for a moment, then: "Well, we can't just leave him here." And _that_ was enough to try and make him look up. What the hell was this man playing at? Of all the people he'd think would sort of stand up for him, he would be _last_ on the list.

But that small movement was a bad idea. A _very_ bad idea. The last thing he saw before spiraling back into unconsciousness was two comically shocked faces.

xXx

The first thing Crowley noticed was that there was a Devil's Trap on the ceiling. It was obviously hastily painted, a fact that honestly didn't make him feel all that much better. He'd had enough of the things.

The second thing Crowley noticed was that he _hurt._ All over. This was worse than the bloody Inquisition (and he'd needed a week's worth of alcohol to recover from _that_)! He moaned.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," someone said to his right.

_Oh, bloody hell, no._

Yes indeed, there he was. The Squirrel, in all his glory. He stood with his arms folded smugly across his chest, glaring at him as if this whole thing were somehow his fault. Which it wasn't, definitely not.

But it also didn't make any sense. Why would a bloody _Winchester_ rescue _him_? Some of the confusion he felt must have shown in his face, because the Squirrel sighed.

"Look, I hate you, okay? You're a demon, and I should probably kill you here and now. But you helped us out last week, and besides, you wouldn't be in any condition to fight back right now." The demon bristled at this, despite knowing that the boy was right. "And… well you're on our side, which is more than we can say for most of the world. We're running out of allies, so you'll have to do."

Crowley took this to mean that there was some sort of trouble in brotherly paradise (when wasn't there?) and their pet angel was still nowhere to be found (because yes, he did know about that, and no, he was not interested in letting the Winchesters know that he knew. He rather liked being alive, thank you).

But he really didn't care. For now, he was still in the land of the living, and if he wasn't mistaken, he was being offered a place to rest up for a while. That was all that mattered.

He was a demon, after all. What more could you expect of him?


	8. Chapter 8

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Eight- Adam**

**Characters:** Adam, some Lucifer, Michael, Castiel, Sam, Bobby

**Word Count: **434

**Summary:** Adam is the vessel of Michael. But he's here, he exists, and he's still waiting.

**Spoilers: **Major spoilers for the end of season five.

**Disclaimer: **Turns out I had the wrong paperwork all along. Looks like I need a Plan C!

**A/N: **So, here's a short little thing with Adam, because he needs some love. I actually got upset writing this, because jeez, he got a really rough deal! Please let me know what you think- this writing style's a little weird for me, but if it's working out, I might do present-tense more often!

* * *

Adam

Adam Milligan remembers it all. It was the last day he saw the sun, after all, and that's not something you forget easily.

The day speeds by like a comet, things swirling around and not always making much sense. This is what it's like to be a vessel, he supposes. One thing blending into the next, and mixing up 'til it's hard to get your head straight. But it _is_ his body, angel driver or not, and he's still here, and he knows what's going on.

Adam hears.

He hears Sam, no, Lucifer, plead with his older brother. Plead to stop this, to turn away, to for once, not follow orders. The pain in his voice is so real, for a moment, he has a glimmer of sympathy for him. Then, he remembers who this is, what he's done. Why sympathy for the devil is never a good idea.

Adam watches.

He watches Castiel, formerly an angel of the Lord but now very much human, toss a Molotov cocktail at him. The bottle spins in slow motion, and all he can do is hope it meets its mark. Castiel is brave, he thinks distantly. I wish I'd gotten to know him better.

Adam tastes.

He tastes the fury in his mouth, a fury not his own, as he burns up. But it doesn't last long, and he's back again. Bobby lies on the ground with a broken neck and Castiel is gone. He tastes sorrow. He really should've tried to get to know them better.

Adam feels.

He feels Sam's hand on his arm, _Sam's_ hand, not Lucifer's, and that's all he feels as the wind rushes around him and they fall, human soul and archangel alike. In that one moment, they are no different.

Adam smells.

He smells Sam's blood and his own as the archangels rip into them. They've been at this for a while know, and he's not sure how long he's going to last before he fades away completely. Can souls do that in the cage? Fade away? He doesn't want to find out.

And then Sam is gone and he is alone.

But that's alright. He's still here, he's still alive, he still hopes. He still dreams. He still remembers, even if no one else does, and he will keep on doing so. Even if he's left in here forever, he'll keep on doing so.

Because there's always a chance that someone will come for him. There's always a chance that this'll be the day that he's rescued.

There's always the chance he'll get to see the sun again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Nine- Aziraphale**

**Characters:** Dean, Sam, Crowley, Aziraphale

**Word Count: **955

**Summary:** The boys discover that there is such a thing as angel trafficking. It's horrible, and it's sick, and they put a stop to it right away, but why does Crowley care so much?

**Spoilers: **For the season 9 finale and through 10.3. Also for the book _Good Omens_

**Disclaimer: **Crowley's eyes are red, Cas's eyes are blue, I don't own Supernatural, and _Good Omens _too.

**A/N: **I'm so sorry I didn't post this yesterday, but I had family over for the whole day, which doesn't leave much time for fanfiction. Here it is, though, and better late than never! This is my _Good Omens _crossover chapter that I warned you about (and I'm not sorry!). If you haven't read _Good Omens_, you will very likely be confused, so if I were you, I'd take five minutes to google who Aziraphale is. If you know that, you should be able to read this. Or you can… just not bother and try to power though. Whatever floats your boat.

Oh, and there will be another chapter later today, just so you know. Dammit, I will have twelve chapters by Christmas!

* * *

Aziraphale

When Cas calls in to tell them that a group of hunters have captured some angels, the Winchesters get right on it. Angels may be dicks, but the brothers know better than anyone that hunters can be even worse. If they've caught a group of angels, something's got to be done about it.

What they don't expect is for Crowley to join them.

They try to kill him as soon as he shows up, of course. Neither of them are over how he acted while Dean was a demon. But he evades the blows and tells them, on no uncertain terms, that he's here to help.

"This… _angel trafficking_, it's right in a hot spot for deals. I can't have that now, can I? It's bad for business, turns off the customers," he says.

Well, it's not as if they can argue with him, in the end. The King of Hell does what the King of Hell wants. Even if his reason _does_ seem a little… flimsy.

The hunters are already gone when they enter the old warehouse they've been using (Dean had commented on the cliché when they first figured out the location). The angels… well, they're still here, but they're clearly beyond help. Ashy imprint after ashy imprint mars the walls and the floor. The empty shells of the beings look as if they were tortured long before they were killed.

Maybe they deserved it, though most likely not. Either way, this is just…

"This is sick." Of the three of them, Crowley is the one to voice what they're all thinking. The boys stare at him in surprise, and he looks back irritably. "Everything I do has a reason, boys," he snaps. "Everything has a purpose. This," He gestures around them, "this is mindless. No rhyme or reason to it. Pointless."

Another flimsy reason. There's a hint of desperation to his voice, as if he's grasping at straws, and the brothers begin to wonder if there's something deeper going on here. "Check them all," Dean finally orders, postponing the attempt to figure out the mystery that is Crowley. "If there's anyone still alive here…" He trails off, not needing to finish. He's not sure why he cares so much; these are _angels _after all. Perhaps it's to make up for what he did as a demon. Perhaps rescuing something holy would somehow do something to help him atone.

Or perhaps it's just because Cas asked him to. And no, he is so not interested in opening that can of worms.

Whatever the reason is, it's starting to seem like it's not going to matter. Every body he passes is just that: a corpse. He's beginning to think that they should call it a day.

It's Sam who finds the live one.

"Over here! I've got one!" he calls. Dean comes rushing over immediately, Crowley following at a slower pace. _And why is he here again?_

The angel is crumpled against the wall and doesn't seem to be breathing, but sure enough, there are no burnt wings to be seen. Dean winces. However alive he may be, he sure as hell doesn't look very good.

And _holy crap is he waking up?_

Yup, sure enough, the angel is stirring and sitting up straighter, despite Sam's efforts to keep him down. His eyes crack open, and Dean notes that they're as blue as Cas's. "Hey, you're okay, we're gonna get you out of here," he soothes, hoping that he sounds remotely reassuring.

The first word out of his mouth is not one that Dean was expecting.

"Cr'wley?"

Dean looks up at the demon, who's studying the whole thing with a very, very odd expression on his face (it looks almost like… _relief_, but that's ridiculous, right?). The demon stares at the angel, and the angel stares back. Then, he sighs, dropping to his knees. "You, angel, are an absolute moron," he states. "What have I said about staying away from America?"

The angel hesitates. "I f'rgot."

"Yes, we've established that you're a moron. What's Anathema going to say?"

Dean and Sam exchange bewildered glances. What the hell is going on, and what the hell's gone and replaced Crowley? Because he shouldn't care about an angel. He shouldn't even _know _any angels!

Crowley sighs again and turns back to the brothers, as if reading their thoughts. "Winchesters, I would like to introduce Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, the bane of my existence, and a complete _moron._"

"But… I thought _we_ were the banes of your existence." It's the only thing Dean can think of to say.

Apparently, that's very funny, as both angel and demon break out into laughter (and in the former's case, it looks like it hurts). "You overestimate your own worth," Crowley states once he can talk again. "Believe me when I say that the position of 'bane of my existence' is definitely going to go to the chap I've known for six thousand years."

Dean doesn't even bother trying to figure out that one, because he's pretty sure that he doesn't want to know. He's quite content with thinking Crowley used to be a human tailor, thank you very much.

"Now then, if you don't mind, I need to get this idiot back home. Ciao!"

Wait, what? Everything's happening too fast now.

"B't I thought I was a m-"

Before Aziraphale can finish his statement, and before the Winchesters can protest or ask more questions, the angel and the demon disappear.

For a moment, there's silence.

Then, Sam strikes.

"So, if _Crowley's _got an angel boyfriend, I really don't see why you feel like you need to keep insisting that there's nothing between you and-"

"Shut up, Sam."


	10. Chapter 10

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Ten- Mr. Fizzles**

**Characters: **Mr. Fizzles, Garth

**Word Count: **392

**Summary:** The Funeral of Mr. Fizzles. Enough said.

**Spoilers: **Set soon after episode 7.18, Party On, Garth

**Disclaimer: **Dishonor on me, dishonor on my family, dishonor on my cow. For alas, Supernatural is still not mine. (nor is that quote from Mulan, by the way)

**A/N: **I… I'm sorry, I have no idea where this came from. This is… I killed him. What did I go and do that for? Not only did I write a oneshot with Garth's sock puppet as the focus, I _killed_ him. _This _is why I should not have caffeine. Ever. Anyway, in other news, I posted the previous chapter just earlier today, so if you haven't read it yet, well, it's there. Do what you want. Now, on with the show!

* * *

Mr. Fizzles

"I'm sure you're all wondering why I've gathered you here today.

"No? Well, I'm telling you anyway.

"We are here to celebrate one of the bravest souls this world has ever known. He was cruelly taken from us today at approximately 4:15 in the afternoon. Yes, my friends, that is correct. Mr. Bartholomew Fizzles has passed away.

"Never a kinder person was there than Mr. Fizzles. He was always the best known for the niceness and love he showed to all children he encountered in his line of work. As his former partner, I know better than anyone else that this ability helped to save so many lives.

"As he saved mine.

"Yes, and I say that with the deepest of sorrow. Mr. Fizzles sacrificed himself so that I could live on.

"...It was my own fault, really. I went into a hunt ill informed. What I thought was a fire denizen turned out to be a dragon.

"I barely escaped with my life, and this only because of the brave actions my friend took for my sake.

"It was a stormy afternoon, and the streets were all but abandoned. I was running, I am not ashamed to admit, for as I said, I did not have any materials that would have let me deal with a dragon. The beast was gaining on me, drawing ever nearer.

"Then, Mr. Fizzles made his move. In a heart stopping moment of bravery, he flung himself right at the face of the dragon.

"You may think that this would be ineffectual. And truly, had he been anything else but what he was, it would have been so. But the dragon was so stunned to have collided head-on with a sock puppet that even as Mr. Fizzles crumbled to ash, the dragon stopped in its tracks, and I was able to escape."

"Later, I was able to go back and collect some of this ashes. These are what I bury now."

Garth threw one last shovelful of dirt onto the small wooden box, and then proceeded to stick a tiny grave marker into the ground.

"Goodbye, Mr. Fizzles. You will be missed."

With that, the hunter turned from the scene and left, wiping away his tears as he made his way through the imaginary masses.

No one wanted to come to a sock puppet's funeral.


	11. Chapter 11

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Eleven- Castiel (again)**

**Characters:** Castiel, Gabriel

**Word Count: **1,124

**Summary:** "_Apparently, after Van Nuys, I suddenly appeared, bloody and unconscious, on a shrimping boat off Delacroix. I'm told it upset the sailors." ~Castiel, Two Minutes to Midnight. _But who got Castiel from the boat to that hospital?

**Spoilers: **For 5.18- Point of No Return, 5.19- Hammer of the Gods, 5.21- Two Minutes to Midnight, and vaguely for 5.22- Swan Song

**Disclaimer: **...Honestly, do I even need to bother saying it anymore? It's not mine, none of it.

**A/N: **So, I had no idea what I was going to write today. And then this happened. I was sobbing as I wrote it, though, because… well, you'll see. I was so tempted to have him be alive, but… I'm in the middle of a mood today, I suppose. But here it is anyway. Second to last chapter!

* * *

Castiel

One of the crew members of the shrimping boat was cheating on his wife.

He was doing it absolutely shamelessly too. He just didn't think he was going to get caught. Because that sort of thing _never _happened, especially not to _smart_, _handsome_ guys like him.

And he'd actually be right (about the not getting caught thing, not about the other stuff), but he hadn't taken into account one thing.

There was a Trickster in the area. Pretending to be a fellow crewmate, in fact. And going after dicks like him was this particular Trickster's specialty.

Yes, Gabriel had something good planned out for this guy. It involved his wife, his girlfriend and some really, really big shrimp. Maybe he'd let him live to suffer through the subsequent humiliation.

Then again, maybe not. He wasn't known for his restraint.

Now that they were finally docking, he could put into effect some of the things he had planned out. Good thing, too; he was getting antsy. What with the big final battle approaching, and approaching fast, he didn't have a whole lot of time to spare. He grinned. Nobody did, which was why he was going bigger and bigger with all of his schemes.

Or so he told himself. Because it definitely _wasn't _because he was trying to ignore his guilty conscience. He didn't _have_ a guilty conscience, for God's sake!

Whatever it was, though, he was expecting great things out of this plan. It wasn't every day he got to use giant shrimp, after all.

What he was _not_ expecting was for his little brother to suddenly appear on deck, bleeding and unconscious.

The sailors scattered in all directions, swearing violently in the way sailors do. Gabriel's eyes widened. What was this? Why was- why would Castiel, of all angels, choose this boat, of all boats, to land on when in danger. The archangel had been around too long to believe it was a coincidence. Taking advantage of the sailors' confusion and panic, he weaved his way forward to crouch beside his brother and turn him over. All the blood had to have a source...

Oh, crap.

Was that a banishing sigil?

_In his chest? _

Well, that explained one thing at least. He must have subconsciously latched on to the location of the strongest Grace he could find, and currently, his was the strongest on Earth.

Still, though. Gabriel narrowed his eyes. _Brother, what have those Winchesters done to you?_ Because it went beyond the sigil. Castiel didn't have an ounce of Grace left that he could sense. He was just… human. Painfully, and possibly irreversibly, human.

The archangel sighed. The very fact that the sigil was there prevented him from healing the idiot. So Castiel would simply have to go to a hospital. "I'll get him to help," he announced loudly, though nobody was listening. They were all too busy running around like headless chickens. Gabriel sighed again and snapped his fingers…

...and they now stood outside of a hospital. Well, Gabriel stood. Castiel slumped. "Help me!" he cried as he rushed through the doors, Castiel slung over one shoulder. "My brother's been mugged!"

It probably wasn't even a lie, considering the angel's luck. Oh, the stories Gabriel could tell…

Not that this was the time.

The four or five doctors and nurses that were conveniently just milling about the lobby  
(seriously, didn't they have anything better to do with their time?) had Castiel strapped onto a gurney in no time flat. Gabriel tried to stay with him, he really did, but they barred his way once they reached the ER, and if there was something he knew not to do, it was not to argue with doctors. They could turn nasty when provoked (and no, he was not interested in sharing how he knew that juicy tidbit).

A young, pretty thing came up to him then and started asking questions. Name, date of birth, hometown, contact information, etc. He got bored not even halfway through and made some sort of flimsy excuse to leave. As soon as he was away from any watchful eyes, he snapped his fingers and appeared in Castiel's room.

The doctors were working to close up his wound, but Gabriel could tell it wouldn't be enough. The sigil had already done its work. Without help, the angel would never wake up.

Luckily for him, Gabriel knew what kind of help he needed.

Invisibly, he pushed his way through the crowd of doctors, idly thinking about how small he looked on that hospital bed. Smaller than when he was a fledgling, that was for sure, as little sense as that made. Maybe it was something to do with the fact that he was human now. Gabriel shook his head in regret. If he had just realized that something like that was going on, that he was _falling_, during the whole T.V. Land fiasco, perhaps he could have helped. Perhaps he could've stopped it.

Well, it was too late for that now. But there was still something he could do. With care he didn't know he still possessed, he reached out and placed a hand on the former angel's forehead, pushing some of his Grace inside him. It wasn't… _healing_, per say, more like an energy boost.

It wouldn't be soon, but Castiel would wake up. Maybe he'd even be okay.

Having done all that he could, Gabriel took one last look at his younger brother and flew out of the hospital. Somehow, he didn't feel much like tormenting that cheating sailor anymore, but that didn't mean he couldn't find something else to do. He'd heard there was going to be a big convention in a week or so, and he hadn't been invited. _Something_ had to be done about that.

And if he got the sense that this had been the last time he'd see Castiel, he ignored it. Such morbid thoughts had no place in the mind of the Trickster.

xXx

Several weeks later, when all the world was going to hell, Castiel woke up. His immediate thoughts were for the Winchesters, but before he left the hospital, he made sure to ask who had gotten him there. Upon hearing the description of the man who had apparently left before giving his information (the description, made by a beautiful young nurse, went something along the lines of, "short, amber eyes, left in a hurry"), he realized instantly that it could only have been one person.

And so, after the world didn't end, after he didn't die permanently, and after Sam jumped and left Dean alone, Castiel flew to an old motel in the middle of nowhere to find his brother.

To give him the funeral he deserved.


	12. Chapter 12

**Twelve Days Of Angstmas: Day Twelve- Brothers**

**Characters:** Dean and Sam

**Word Count: **314

**Summary:** Leviathans are after the boys yet again. Sam's got a concussion, and Dean's not doing too hot himself. But they still have each other.

**Spoilers: **Season 7, I guess

**Disclaimer: **So, here I am, for the last time. I don't own Dean, nor do I own Sam. I won't try to claim otherwise.

**A/N:** Here it is! The last chapter (that I'm somehow not happy with, but I had to post something, didn't I?)! This is such a bittersweet moment. But it had to end eventually, so… I will wish you all a very merry Christmas, and a happy New Year! And thank you all for your support and feedback; every time I got a review, or a fave, or a follow, it absolutely made my day! So thank you, thank you, thank you!

* * *

Brothers

This could be their last night on earth.

Dean didn't want to admit that, but it was true.

The Leviathans had caught up to them again. Apparently, they thought it was time to stop playing around and actually kill them. So here they were, hunkered down behind a tree in the middle of nowhere, Dean with a broken arm and Sam with a nasty concussion, hoping beyond hope that the things wouldn't find them. Because if they did, it was over.

"Hey, Deeean," Sam slurred from his position next to him. "Meeeeerry Christmas."

Dean stared at his younger brother. He was right. It was Christmas Eve.

He'd forgotten all about it.

"When're we gonna dec'rate the tree?" Sam asked. No, not Sam, Sammy. This was definitely Sammy; with the head injury, none of his typical guards and walls were in place, and that made all the difference.

"Soon, Sammy," he replied, pulling his brother close. "Real soon."

"Mmkay. Is Cas gonna come? And Bobby?"

Dean's heart clenched. "Yeah," he choked out. "They're coming."

Sammy closed his eyes, and his head flopped onto Dean's shoulder. "Good. Tha's good. We need to have a _real_ Christmas this year." He waved his hand around, gesturing at nothing.

There was silence for a moment, then:

"Dean, you're coming too, right?"

His voice was pleading, as if he expected a different answer, and Dean shifted in place to better look at the man. He was staring up at him, puppy dog eyes wide, though glazed over. "Yeah," he said again. "Yeah, I'll be there. Of course I'll be there. We'll have Christmas together, I promise."

Sammy made no reply, and Dean realized that he was unconscious.

And so, as far away, a bell tolled to signify the new day, Dean held his little brother close to him. "Merry Christmas, Sammy," he whispered.

The Leviathans didn't find them that night.


End file.
